


give a man a mask

by ClementineStarling



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5011054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The carnival in Venice creates an illusion of anonymity that works to Dorian's advantage.</p><p>Set in the infamous years of Dorian's corruption.<br/>Seduction of a poor lord. References to Victorian morals.<br/>Beware, some dubcon-overtones and D/s-allusions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give a man a mask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avarantis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avarantis/gifts).



_

It's moments like these that make Dorian think of Basil's garden.

Perhaps it is the stillness of early morning, which is so unlike afternoons brimming with the song of birds and the buzzing of bees. Outside the waves, salty as tears, may lick at the house and the wind sigh and sob, but inside it is quiet, as silent as a grave.

Perhaps it is the thin light of the weak winter sun, which does not compare at all to the brightness of summer days. Even though the room itself is vivid with candle-flames, the new day still hangs pale and bleak over the Floating City.

Perhaps it is the lingering odour of decay, that rises from the damp stone, which is the exact opposite of the lively fragrance of flowers. The bouquet on the mantle piece is gorgeous, no doubt, but its blossoms could not be any more scentless if made from paper.

All these comparisons might be possible, but what Dorian really remembers is Harry's voice. It whispers, echoes in his mind, through time and through space; he cannot make out the words anymore, just their lull, their sweet temptation, and he is still drunk on them, after all these months. Harry opened the world to him then, gave him the book, the key to his awakening, Harry's instrument to tear down the veil of propriety and show him that pleasure ought not be fettered by morals. The pictures swim in his mind like a vague residue of dreams, half memory, half inspiration.

What sticks out from the foggy past though, what he actually recalls, is something Basil said to him once, which has become the rule he lives by: _You are made to be worshipped._

It is a sentence he wears like jewellery. 

People do see this truth in him – not the whole truth of course, not the ugliness Basil has banned so skilfully on canvas, but his unmarred, flawless beauty that demands instant surrender. They bow to his marble-boyhood, the pink flower of his lips, the sunshine-hair, their desire hardly concealed, not even here, where everybody is wearing a mask. He stands out between them, as lurid as a flame among the colourful costumes, and they flock to him, just for a smile, a word, the hope for a kiss. Just like _he_ did, who has stayed by his side the whole night, as they let themselves be carried away by the waves of the crowd, from ball to ball, until they washed up in an alley at the cusp of dawn, the mist low over the canals, their steps the only sound in the snow-clad silence. 

Arm in arm like brothers they tried to find their way, which can be so easily lost in this labyrinth-city; they stumbled, dizzy with drink, sought purchase on the crumbling walls of a house, and Dorian found himself pinned to the stone by the weight of his companion and also the certainty he would have kissed him, had he worn no mask. The heavy breathing, the treacherous heat, Dorian knew the tell-tale signs of arousal too well not to see them.

He smiled, cruelty swallowed by a mirror in an attic far far away, a poisonous promise. “So is this what you want?”, he asked, the words hot in the winter chill as he leaned closer to let them brush over the sparse amount of uncovered skin between _bauta_ and costume. 

A carnival is meant for transgression, for adventure, of course he _wanted_ it. But he also still hid behind his disguise, and Dorian would not let him. Without warning, without prelude he pressed his palm between his companion's legs, and the poor fellow gasped in shock, half-hard already and growing harder still under the probing weight of Dorian's hand. Well, it was enough of an answer.

Enough to drag him along, spread him upon the altar that is his bed, a sacrifice to himself, who is, at the same time, god and high-priest of his own religion. 

When Basil talked about worship, he took Dorian for an idol, something to be put on a pedestal, something pretty and tame, but he is not so acquiescent. He _wants_ , and he _takes_ , tribute, offerings, sacrifice-- the warm, slick spill of blood and seed alike, regardless whether pleasure or pain is the cause of corruption, he embraces all flavours of sin.

Before him, the long expanse of a pale back, a cobble-path of vertebrae, is trembling with breath as he traces a finger over this chain of bones. Reverently as one would touch the beads of a rosary. Is this not prayer? Is not submission to a higher power at the heart of any religion? And does not a merciful god repay a believer in kind?

He places his hand on the curve of Bryton's arse, his thumb dipping between the cheeks, barely more than a tease, but Bryton moans, shamelessly, spreading his legs further to ease his way. He is on all fours, naked but for his golden mask, this symbol of anonymity the last illusion of refuge Dorian will allow him, so he can, just for a little while longer, pretend Dorian does not know who he is. Pretend, that he himself has forgotten he is a duke's eldest son, and that he stays here at the Danieli with his newly-wed wife, the lovely Beatrice, in whose bed he should be at this moment, sound asleep, instead of kneeling in front of Dorian, positively begging for his touch.

Dorian knows all this and he understands the desire to hide. Who would understand better than he who has no need for masks of leather or porcelain or glass, who needs not hide, for he is already hidden? The protection runs in his very skin, precious gift of an old friend. No one will recognise him for what he is – his face bears none of sin's traitorous marks, he is the picture of innocence. His beauty already is his mask, and what a waste to conceal it. 

But the carnival has its own rules, and since he must wear a mask, he has chosen a _Colombina_ , which still allows him to kiss and to smile and to do all kinds of terrible things with his beautiful mouth. And he makes good use of it now, as he leans down to run his tongue alongside his fingers, tasting velvety flesh.

Bryton squirms beneath him, panting.

Dorian has no choice but to hold him still, while he continues his preparation, the small, teasing licks that elicit the loveliest sounds of desperation. Tiny gasps at first, then low moans growing more and more broken, then pleas, little words like please and god and yes, half swallowed by stuttering breath. His fingers dig into Bryton's hips as he works him open with long, thorough slides of his tongue, bitter for all the sweetness to come, and he can sense how Bryton's mind frays and yields to the need swelling inside the body like hunger, an irrational, savage urge, overpowering every last shred of doubt. 

No gentleman should allow himself to be plucked apart like this, piece by piece, should give in so readily to an act, society condemns so strongly, mask or no mask, Dorian thinks as he shifts, presses against Bryton and into him, into that pliant slick heat. It is a weakness, a vulnerability, wicked people could use to destroy a man, if they wished, for profit or pleasure, one never knows. Some vague notion of this thought may have leapt over, some sort of realisation struck at last, for the body tenses, as if suddenly becoming aware of the unseemliness of Dorian's intentions, clutches at him, around him, in either delight or disgust, it matters little, one can rarely distinguish between them. Most often they run into one, heighten the sentience, whetting the appetite. And why would he care now? The ache in Dorian is too profuse to ignore, there are things one cannot undo, time one cannot rewind, too late is too late, regret cannot wipe the slate clean. 

Bryton groans under him as Dorian thrusts forwards, deep, harsh, the exploration of flesh pitiless, his nails mean, cruel against tender skin, the graze of his teeth sharp as he bends over him, brushes his mouth – open, hungry, wanton – along the stretched out spine, this series of bones holding a human together, so fascinating, so fragile. He bites at the neck which is so easily snapped by the rope, marks it with a lover's passion, the pace of his hips punishing, brutal, a chastisement that fits the crime.

“Please”, Bryton whispers against the pillows, muffled, interrupting a litany of moans, “please.”

Dorian knows it is for his hand he begs, his hand around his cock that is bouncing with every one of his thrusts, hard and weeping and desperate, the touch an alleviation from the pressing need, this barbed-wire sensation in the pit of his stomach. A promise of release perhaps, a concession that this is not only for Dorian, that he is not a mere toy, used at will.

“What do you want from me”, Dorian whispers back, rubbing himself deliberately against the spot deep within Bryton, that will leave him even more mindless and incoherent, and yet unsatisfied, “I am already fucking you, am I not? What else can you possibly ask for?”

The whine is obvious in Bryton's voice as he attempts to answer, “please would you touch... would you... I can't, I just...” 

Dorian does not stop, can't stop now, must go on, must push into the tightness that is so good around him, fulfilment already so close, – he buries his hand in Bryton's hair and pulls, dragging the man further onto himself, “tell me”, he hisses, the words accentuated with another thrust. He is so close now, the tension unbearable, and he can only imagine how frustrating it must be for Bryton who is shivering all around him, strung so taut, one single stroke of his hand may be enough. And Bryton tries to speak, tries to muster just enough of his wits to express his desires.

The clock on the mantle-piece is about to strike nine. Dorian almost feels its ticking trembling through his bones, time slowing down as the pressure of flesh around him grows intolerable.

The moment the door handle turns he is hovering at the very edge of release, the door swinging open as he demands an answer again, “tell me what to do, beg for it”, he growls, and Bryton moans to please, please stroke him, let him come, touch his cock, oh please, and Dorian obliges at last. Pushes into him, deep, hard, as he yanks Bryton upwards, on his knees, a long line of exposed flesh facing the door, and his fingers curl around his swollen, damp organ, grating along its tender length as if to strip away the skin, violent, and it does not take more than that. Dorian feel the contractions of orgasm, dragging him along, even before Bryton positively howls with pleasure, and he draws his hand away, and Bryton bucks his hips, desperate for the lost friction, his cock bobbing, spurting seed all over his belly and chest and the bed in front of him, long silvery strands of shame, a picture of despoilment.

And his wife, Beatrice, stands in the door, Dorian's note in her trembling hand, blanching, eyes wide, mouth open, lips forming his name, unable to speak it out loud, petrified at the sight of her husband, stained with his sin, impaled on the cock of another man, who is just spilling himself inside him, his moan stifled against Bryton's wide shoulder.

“See, Percy”, Dorian says when he's found his voice again, Bryton still shaking in his arms, “it wasn't that hard to ask for it, was it?”

It is only when Beatrice spins around on her heel and flees, that Bryton sees her and realises the extent of his ruin.

_

**Author's Note:**

> My beloved Avarantissima wished for top!dom!wicked!Dorian, seducing some poor lord, then arranging for his wife to catch them in the act. I hope this vaguely resembles what you had in mind. :*


End file.
